


Fire & Ice

by whenyouheldtheknife



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, Hopeful Ending, Light Angst, Mild Language, One Shot, Sex, Sexual Content, and then they do it, basically dirk thinks a lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2013-03-27
Packaged: 2017-12-06 17:06:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/738059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whenyouheldtheknife/pseuds/whenyouheldtheknife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You know that it’s impossible to escape yourself. You’ve tried. But you’ve learned that the faster you try to outrun yourself, the faster you spring up in your own goddamn path. This fact, this Murphy’s Law of self-hatred and disgust, rings especially true for you. Everywhere you turn, there you are, staring you right in the face and ready to tear yourself apart through any means necessary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fire & Ice

**Author's Note:**

> 1) so i wrote this today and it was supposed to be rosemary but uh. the girl on the bed turned into roxy so. yeah.  
> 2) this is literally my first time writing either of these two.  
> 3) i relate to dirk a hell of a lot more than is healthy.  
> 4) this could be taken as them doing it at any time; after the game ends, in a different universe, in the game at some point, in a dream bubble, whatever you wanna think about it. i'm chill with whatever.

She’s laying face-up on her bed, her eyes closed and her black lipsticked mouth hanging partway open. You stand in the doorway, watching her. Making sure she’s breathing. Her pink skirt has ridden most of the way up her thighs, exposing the pale skin there and revealing the fact that she doesn’t wear tights, but thigh-high stockings. You watch her chest ride and fall slowly and wonder why. 

Why does she do this to herself? Why does she think that she can escape herself this way? You know that it’s impossible to escape yourself. You’ve tried. But you’ve learned that the faster you try to outrun yourself, the faster you spring up in your own goddamn path. This fact, this Murphy’s Law of self-hatred and disgust, rings especially true for you. Everywhere you turn, there you are, staring you right in the face and ready to tear yourself apart through any means necessary. Maybe Roxy doesn’t literally have another version of herself in her face all the time, but the feelings are still there. And they are always the same. 

She stirs slightly on the bed, her pale eyebrows furrowing, and turns over. Her arms are spread haphazardly across the covers and you only just now realize that she fell asleep on top of them, instead of underneath them. A soft exhale breezes past your lips without your acknowledging it and you fully lean against the doorway, unsurprised when it creaks in protest at your weight. Roxy shifts again, coming closer to wakefulness as a frown bubbles to the forefront of her features. She stretches minutely, unconsciously according to AR, and you turn the shades’ capabilities off, setting up your auto-auto-responder. Anyone who needs to contact you can wait; Roxy is waking up. 

You straighten up from your position on the door frame just as Roxy sits up and rubs at her eyes, smearing the make-up there into charcoal smudges that streak underneath her eyes. She blinks at you, her magenta eyes focusing slowly. “Dirk?” she asks, her voice muddled with sleep. 

You nod once, knowing that it won’t take more than that for her to recognize that she’s awake and that it is you standing in her doorway. A smile seems to make her glow from the inside out and inside of you, your heart thumps with pride; you like being the one who lights up the void that you know is inside Roxy. The alcohol is just a filler that she uses to try and fill up a hole inside of her, a hole that should have never been born into such a person, and you take pleasure in the knowledge that, when you’re around, she never even looks for a drink. And you, stubborn as ever, would refuse to let Roxy drink herself away even if the situation were different. You can’t let her go, not when she is the one who makes you remember that you have a heart in the first place. 

“What’re you doing here?” she asks, and thought it’s meant to come off as a playful, coy sort of question, you can hear the breathless excitement in her voice. She missed you. 

“Thought I’d visit my favorite person in person,” you reply, trying your damnedest to be cool, but Roxy lifts a hand to her mouth to hide a grin. You wonder if she sees you the same way that you see her. If she thinks of you the way that you think of her. You haven’t told her how you feel about her, about how she’s the only one to ignite your smile, about how you so desperately want to make her happy, because that’s not how you roll. You operate from the shadows, pulling the curtains from behind the scenes, a stagehand in the play of life. But something inside you rolls over and turns sour when you think of taking such a course of action when it comes to Roxy. It doesn’t feel right to pull your usual tricks and that scares the hell out of you when you stop to think about it. You know that you only feel that way when it comes to Roxy because she knows you well enough to call you out on your tricks. And the thought of anyone knowing you so well makes you wish you could hide. 

Roxy lowers her hand from her mouth and grins. “Come on and sit then, don’t be a stranger, Di-Stri,” she tells you, using your old nickname as she pats an empty spot on the bed beside her for good measure. 

You hesitate for a moment. Sitting next to Roxy might not be the wisest of choices, your self-preservation tactic center murmurs, at the same time that it starts to flash warning bells, trying to get you to run from the notions it might intimate, were you to sit on her bed. But you ignore that voice, even as it grows louder, and walk towards Roxy, sitting beside her on her twin bed with the rumpled purple comforter. Your feet remain on the floor; you kept your shoes on, an old habit you’ve maintained from the fact that you so often run in situations like these. The fact that you’re sitting here with her right now makes you itch with the urge to push up and run; these are the types of scenarios you try to avoid. “Hey,” you say, and you turn your head to look at Roxy. 

Roxy is surprisingly close to your face at the moment, which makes you freeze up. You hadn’t been expecting her to be so close. “Hi,” she returns, her wine-scented breath ghosting across your face. Without any preamble, Roxy reaches up and lifts your shades off of your face, holding them back and away from you as if she expects you to leap up and try to grab them. 

Without your shades, you feel naked, exposed; they’ve been your safeguard your whole life. But you can’t take them back now, can’t undo Roxy seeing your orangey-amber eyes. “Wow,” she says, smiling widely at the sight. “They’re just like a fire.” Roxy’s own eyes slit halfway closed, reminding you of a cat, until she starts to lean forward. On impulse, you do the same, until your noses brush and you tilt your head, your lips brushing against hers gently, then pressing a bit harder, then your lips and her lips are moving together, in perfect time. 

You reach up and place a hand on the back of Roxy’s head, your fingers carding gently through her fine blond hair as you lean her backwards to rest on the body, your body hovering above hers, afraid to touch. You don’t break the mouth-to-mouth contact. 

And as your other hand slides up and under her shirt, your fingers ghosting over her cool skin, as you swallow the slight sounds she makes with each motion of your body against hers, you contemplate fire. You wonder why Roxy thinks of you like a fire as you strip her and then yourself, of your shirts, her stockings, her skirt; as you shuck your pants down. 

You wonder if she knows how truthful her comparison is as you lean over her, murmur, “Ready?” and watch her nod, her confident smile, when you lean into her slowly, carefully, and when she nods, pick up a steady pace. You wonder if she knows what she is getting into. If she knows that, as your body picks up pace, snapping into hers at the rate of the ferocity of her nails in your back, she’s walking into a blazing inferno that has destroyed everything it has tried to love. 

And as you hear her whisper your name like she spoke it directly into your ear, as your body shudders with hers, your name on repeat dropping from her lips and traveling through your veins like ice water, you hope that she will be the one person you don’t burn alive. 


End file.
